


she's waiting there for you

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, but she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation, i hear the drums echoing tonight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13526262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: Serena comes to Africa to be with Bernie, to see the work she does, to try to find a new life for herself, a new way of being.





	she's waiting there for you

**Author's Note:**

> if you didn't think i wasn't going to write some emotions about this, then you do not know me at all.

Serena closes her eyes as the sliding doors open, a wall of hot air hitting her, a welcome feeling after the hours spent on planes and sitting in airports, all kept too cold, her hands feeling the chill the worst, her knuckles stiff and sore. The sunlight greets her, shining through her eyelids, relentless and sultry, beating down on the pavement, on her head. She hears Bernie call her name, opens her eyes and sees the woman she loves standing by the row of waiting cars, moving her hand in a soft, tentative wave. 

She feels like she’s moving through honey, that the world has slowed, as she walks to Bernie, the world becoming just the two of them. They don’t hug, they don’t kiss, they just stand in place for a long moment, staring, drinking each other in. “You’re like a cactus in the desert, darling,” Serena says in a low voice, and Bernie ducks her head, can’t quite hide the grin appling her cheeks. 

Bernie is good at driving through the streets of Nairobi, her rather devil-may-care approach to British traffic laws serving her well as she speeds along, dust flying up around the tires. They pass by rail stations, pass by people walking along. There are restaurants, too, shops, markets, and Serena didn’t know what she expected, but feels silly that she didn’t expect this. Bernie points down streets, indicates villages, churches. She points out some of the hospitals she’s visited - there are more of those than Serena anticipated as well. 

“There are private hospitals, and small public hospitals. That one,” she says, pointing, “Sees about a hundred and fifty people a week, and they’ve only got ten beds. There’s a lot to do here.” Serena can hear how much she cares, how much she loves the work she does. She reaches for Bernie’s hand, firm on the stick shift, and lets herself touch Bernie’s fingers with her own, shielded in the privacy of the car. Bernie smiles, quick and sweet, lifts a finger to wrap around Serena’s thumb for just a moment, then focuses her attention back onto the road. 

Bernie takes them to a small apartment complex near the center of Nairobi, all paved streets and tall buildings. The large gate outside opens for them when Bernie enters a code into the keypad, and she pulls into a parking space. “This is sort of a permanent residence for visiting doctors. It’s a rotating schedule, we take turns staying here after working for a few weeks out in Dadaab.” It’s nice enough, impersonal, but with no set tenant, Serena supposes it’s fine. She leaves her suitcase in the corner by the door, looks out the window, at the manicured lawns in front of her, the small fountain. 

“It’s easy to forget there’s another world out there,” she says, hand on the thin white curtains. Bernie comes up behind her, her body warm at Serena’s back. She slides her hand along Serena’s waist, under the loose silk of her blouse. 

“There’s only one thing I’m concerned about right this second,” Bernie says, her mouth pressed against Serena’s neck, tongue lightly tapping her pulse point. Serena turns in Bernie’s arms and finally, _finally_ , kisses her. It’s been too long since France, since they drank wine under the stars, since they whispered their love to each other with the scent of grapes wafting over them. Bernie tastes like the desert, like the heat, the saltiness of sweat on her lips, chapped from the sun. 

Serena rests her hand against Bernie’s cheek, enjoying the feel of her, warm and real. “I missed you,” she says seriously, her other hand toying with the pendant around her neck. She kisses Bernie again, tries to memorize every detail, every moment. Bernie leans into Serena’s touch, slips her tongue past Serena’s lips and it’s like no time has passed. 

-

Spending time in the city with Bernie is strange, Serena has found. She never traveled with Edward, not much. They were both too focused on their careers, and then Elinor came along. Now, she gets to walk the street of this bustling city with Bernie at her side, to experience this new place with someone she cares about, to have memories of Kenya and Bernie inextricably linked. They don’t touch, don’t hold hands, but they walk close, just as they walked through the halls of Holby City Hospital together, and there’s a comfort in that too.

Bernie takes Serena to the Maasai Market, laughingly tells her it’s mostly just for tourists now. “Yes, well.” Serena says, a little put out, wanting to feel more than a local than she really deserves. But the market is lovely, vibrant and busy, and Serena finds herself wishing she could buy Jason a beaded bracelet, something he could have as a token of her trip, so he’d know he is in her thoughts even while she’s on another continent.

She loves the scarves best, the wide swaths of woven material, so bright and colorful. She runs her hands along the fabric, thinks it’s been so long since she wore color, so long since she felt like she could do anything but mourn. 

“I like the pink,” Bernie says, a quiet whisper behind Serena and she almost jumps at the sound, unexpected and close. She turns and smiles up at Bernie.

“Me too.” It’s pink and purple and yellow and is everything Serena feels when she looks at Bernie, when she sees that happy face looking down at her. She doesn’t buy it though, just smiles at the vendor and moves on, leaving Bernie behind as she examines sandals, wooden spoons. She accepts a flier that talks about the Maasai women, how they began this marketplace, how it’s changed over the years. She barters with a woman threading beads in her stall, making the bracelets she’s eyed for Jason. Bernie rejoins her, a comfortingly solid presence behind her once more, and tells her that she’s still overpaying. 

“Such a tourist,” she says with laughter in her eyes, and Serena elbows her in the stomach. 

Bernie takes Serena to a post office, watches her write Jason’s address in her crisp neat penmanship. It’s an exorbitant amount of money to mail the package to England, but Serena doesn’t blink, knows it’s the right thing to do, knows Jason will like it, even if he’ll never wear the bracelet around his wrist. He’ll look up the marketplace, will look up Maasai women, will look up beading techniques. She’s given him a research project and a gift all in one. 

Nairobi feels foreign and familiar at the same time, the bustling streets, the groceries, the churches. Serena stands out especially, her pale British skin, untouched by sun and she tries not to feel concerned, worried, to hold her purse close, wants to be a better person than this. 

Bernie walks with an easy gait, the confidence of having spent time here, of knowing a few locals. She says hello to a shop owner standing outside having a cigarette, tells Serena that’s where she often goes to get the everyday things, to keep the fridge stocked in the small apartment. 

They stop to have lunch together, a small place Bernie knows, tables outside, richly scented food wrapped in paper, the spices tingling on Serena’s tongue. When they’ve finished, Bernie drives them to a mall in a suburb of Nairobi, and it’s fancier than Serena expected, three floors of stores, outdoor escalators all lit up, giant palm trees in the piazza, just as busy as everywhere else they’ve been. She knows there’s a wealth disparity, knows that this is just the affluent part of things, wonders if Bernie’s shielding her from the harder parts, the worst things. They buy clothes for her, lightweight, quick-drying things. Bernie warns her that she’ll spend most of her time in scrubs when they get to the base camp, laughs at the face she pulls. 

Sleep that night feels earned, a long day of travel, the exhaustion of being in a new place, of being barraged with new sights and sounds and smells. She holds Bernie close while she sleeps, for comfort, for security, she’s not sure. Bernie seems happy to be held, burying her face in Serena’s collarbone and exhaling soft snores against her skin. 

-

The drive to Dadaab is long, seven hours away from Nairobi’s bustling city center. There’s a driver from the camp that comes to get them, chatty for the first few minutes but subsiding into silence as they leave the tall buildings behind, everything shrinking and vanishing until they’re just driving on an unpaved road, only wind and dust and sand and sun. Bernie has tried to prepare Serena, has tried to impart how difficult it can be to work with refugees, to work in these sorts of conditions, but she’s also said that there’s no way to be prepared, that the only way to do it is to just do it, and see what comes after. 

They get dropped off at the Aid Agencies camp and Serena feels silly with her rolling suitcase, feels unready and small in the face of what they’re doing. There are small brick buildings dotting the half-made streets, cats roaming around, sniffing at the new scents Serena’s brought with her. They have to wait for another ride to take them to the base camp for the trauma initiative, and Serena feels fidgety, already less comfortable than she was in Nairobi, less sure of herself. 

She’s always been confident in her abilities, but she’s never wanted for supplies or fresh water or clean implements, she’s never been challenged in this way, and she desperately wants to measure up to Bernie, wants to be able to do this too. 

When they finally get to the camp, Bernie picks up Serena’s suitcase, carries it to a small tent, two twin cots on either side of it, each hung with mosquito netting, each foot of the cot resting in a tin can. Serena’s avoided thinking about bugs, about the creatures that might come out at night, takes a deep breath, and looks at Bernie. “What do we do now?” she asks, trying to sound braver than she feels. 

She changes into different clothes, feels like she’s going on a safari, sprayed almost to death with insect repellant, a wide brimmed hat hanging behind her head. Bernie introduces her around camp, to the other doctors, to the nurses, to some of the patients who have been around far longer than anyone anticipated. Serena doesn’t remember any of the names, feels like it’s all a blur. She sees that Bernie is deferential to another woman, about their age, watches her speak to one of the doctors in another language, Swahili if she had to guess. 

“She’s the de facto leader,” Bernie says, “She’s been here longer than any of us, was one of the initiators of this whole project.” Bernie sounds slightly reverential, and Serena can’t imagine the skills this other surgeon must possess if she’s impressed Bernie Wolfe. 

It’s a different life, out here. It feels more chaotic, more disorganized, and Bernie is Serena’s lifeline to order. She doesn’t want to follow her around, doesn’t want to cling to her, but it’s all so foreign that she almost can’t do anything else, not for the first day. And then there’s a surgical emergency and Bernie calls her into assist. Serena gets blood on her new shirt because there’s no time to change, and the mysterious synergy that always existed between the two of them is present once again as they save a man’s life with almost no words spoken, just a quiet understanding of what the other one needs.

It’s her first surgery in months, the first time she’s held a scalpel, the first time she’s slipped on those gloves, the first time she’s tied a scrub cap over her hair. It feels like no time has passed, the thrill of medicine running through her veins just like it did when she was in medical school. She’d built the trauma bay for Bernie, to keep her happy, keep her challenged, but it’s the trauma out here that’s putting Serena back together again.

Bernie goes off to debrief after the surgery, to explain tactics and discuss strategies. She sends Serena off to change, tells her she’ll be present for the debriefs in the future but that she’s allowed time to get her bearings, and Serena’s appreciative. She throws her shirt in the corner of the tent, sure there’s something else to be done with stained clothes, and slips a loose white shirt over her head. 

She stands outside her small home, faces away from the camp, the medical tents, looks out into the desert, the ground stretching out, steaming in front of her, wobbly and uncertain and she understands why people look for mirages. 

She hears her name, turns around, the sand at her back. She shields her eyes with her hand, the desert winds blowing her hair around her face, the greying strands hitting her fingers. She feels the sun on her shoulders, knows she’ll be pink tomorrow, and looks at Bernie, walking towards her with a smile on her face.

-

The time goes by quickly, and weeks pass in a matter of moments. She’s not keeping track of the days, not really, just happy to work once more beside Bernie, happy to find enjoyment in surgery again, in helping patients. It’s hard work, grueling, there are days when she wants to shout and cry all at once but she never feels like she’s wasting her time. She’s starting to feel whole again, more present. It isn’t enough to nurse a broken heart in Paris, to get lost in a vineyard. She’s had to rebuild herself, make herself over, into something stronger, into something new. 

It hasn’t rained once since they’ve arrived, the sun relentless and muggy, making Serena almost miss the endless rainy days of England. Just once, she thinks, she would like to be caught in a downpour, just once to be drenched through to the skin by something other than sweat.

On her last night in Dadaab, she’s nestled close to Bernie in their tent, mosquito netting above them, the quiet hum of insects always present. The camp is never really quiet, never really settled, but there’s a modicum of peace, of acknowledged rest. “I got you something,” Bernie says, her voice soft as she leans over Serena, her naked skin sliding against Serena’s. It’s too hot for clothes when the spend their nights pressed together, and they’re afforded privacy in their small tent, the one place they can express affection without fear of reproof. No one knows for sure that they’ve eschewed the second bed, that they spend their nights cocooned together, but Serena thinks some of the other doctors have guessed, giving subtle winks and small smiles when Bernie and Serena walk around the camp together.

Bernie rustles in her ever-present satchel, resting on the floor of the tent, right next to the rickety bedframe, pulls out two items, one wrapped hastily in tissue paper, the other in a small box. Serena sits up, holds the sheet under her arms, accepts the items in her lap, Bernie settling back on her side, her hand resting against Serena’s hip, finger tracing a small pattern in calming, yet insistent, circles. 

“Which one first?” Serena asks, knows Bernie will say it doesn’t matter, even as she reaches for the larger package, her fingernails tearing into the flimsy paper as she picks it up. She slides the gift free of the wrapping, a soft square in her hands.

It’s the scarf, the scarf from the market the day she first arrived. She holds it close to her face, breathes it in, and it smells like Bernie, smells like Kenya, smells like the dust and the sand and the heat, and Serena thinks she might never wash it. “I love it,” she says, the material soft and warm against her skin.

“Yeah?” Bernie says, so timid and nervous, never good at giving presents, never all that good at accepting compliments either.

“Yes,” Serena says firmly, knows she’ll wear it all winter, can’t believe she’s chosen to come back to Holby in February, the dreariest of months. She looks at the small box left in her lap, looks at it like it might explode. She doesn’t know what’s inside, if it’s a ring that will lead to a proposal, if it’s a keychain bought at the Jomo Kenyatta airport. She doesn’t know which she’d rather see when she opens the lid.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it,” Bernie says, nosing against Serena’s shoulder, pressing her lips into the soft skin there. “But I saw it, and it made me think of you.” Serena cranes her neck back, sloppily presses her lips to Bernie’s, wishes there was a way to reassure her, to promise that everything will always be all right, that she likes everything, even the hard things, even the bad things, because they’re going through them together.

The kiss lingers, Serena never getting her fill of the taste of Bernie, wanting to get as much in before she has to leave. She nips at Bernie’s lower lip, just once, nuzzles their noses together, then turns back to the small box in her lap. She lifts the lid, sees a silver necklace nestled on a square of cotton. Her fingers go to the pendant hanging from her neck, a wistful touch, a present from Elinor for Mother’s Day six years ago. 

It’s painful to wear it, somedays, to look in the mirror at the ever-present piece of jewelry and have the forceful reminder of her daughter, of all the presents she’ll never get, of all the presents she’ll never give. Maybe, she thinks, just maybe, taking it off isn’t a sign of disloyalty, isn’t that she’s forgetting Elinor. Her fingers fumble with the clasp at the back of her neck, but Bernie’s hands stop her.

“It’s not a replacement,” she says, that low throaty voice tinged with worry. 

“I know that,” Serena answers, loosing the necklace. She presses it into Bernie’s hand. “I didn’t get you a going away present. You can keep this, something to remember me by.” Bernie’s hand closes around the pendant, the first time someone else has held it since the first time she put it on. Her heart clenches a little, she feels a bit weepy, but she picks up the new necklace, a hollow silver teardrop hanging from the chain. The clasp is the same, her fingers easily fasten it. It’s heavier, a different weight, cool against Serena’s warm skin. 

“I don’t need a necklace to remember you by,” Bernie says, and her voice sounds thick with emotion. Serena so often thinks how hard it will be to leave Bernie behind here that she hasn’t thought how Bernie will feel to be left, thought Bernie’s work would be enough to sustain her, sometimes forgets that Bernie loves her just as much.

“Keep it just the same,” Serena says, turning to face Bernie, on her side once more, her thumb rubbing at the edge of Bernie’s eye, getting slightly damp with unshed tears, her dark irises reflecting the low light of the lamp hanging above them. “I like to think of a piece of me and a piece of Elinor out here with you.” She kisses Bernie’s forehead, her nose, her lips. 

Bernie pulls away, just enough that she can slip the necklace on, Serena’s fingers moving to help her with the clasp. “The last chain I wore had dog tags,” Bernie says a little ruefully, sliding her finger against the necklace. Serena doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t quite know what Bernie means by it, just uses the thin chain to pull Bernie’s lips back against her own, holds her close. 

Kissing Bernie never grows old, never feels mundane, and Serena wishes she could do it forever, wishes there was some advanced degree she could achieve in snogging Bernie Wolfe, because she would happily spend the rest of her days perfecting the technique. 

“Handy that we’re already naked,” she whispers against Bernie’s lips with a smile, pushing Bernie back on the small cot, the joints creaking slightly with the movement as Serena straddles her. She feels a bit of a giggle coming on, laughter burbling up from her gut, a release after the wealth of emotion built up from two small gifts. Her body shakes slightly with the effort to keep it pent up, her lips pressed together as she runs her hands down Bernie’s bare chest, mapping her curves, scraping her nails slightly against her scarred and freckled skin, making goose pimples erupt as she goes. Bernie shifts slightly, a jarring noise from the cot signalling her every move, and it’s then that Serena loses her control, that she leans down, rests her head between Bernie’s breasts and laughs and laughs and laughs, her legs on either side of Bernie’s hips, her stomach shaking.

Bernie, frozen at the first sounds of mirth escaping from Serena, loosens, a low chuckle working past her lips, her arms coming up to hug Serena, and their bodies shake and wobble and jostle together, the cot creaking all the while. Then Bernie lets loose a great loud honk, so much louder in the middle of the night, so much louder when they’re supposed to be asleep, and Serena doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to stop the giggles coming out of her. Her mouth is buried against Bernie’s neck, laughing into her skin, feeling Bernie’s glee echo through her body, write itself into her bones, another gift to take back to England. 

-

They leave Dadaab a day before Serena’s flight, make the long drive back to the city, and Serena feels a little clench in her chest at the sight of the buildings growing as they near the urban area, a certain sign she’s leaving one of her lives behind. This visit was never meant to be forever, but there's a part of her that thinks it could be. Bernie lets their hands touch in the back seat of the truck, due for a little leave time in Nairobi after their weeks in the desert, happy enough to coincide it with Serena’s travel arrangements.

Bernie drives her to the airport early, the roads dark and clear as they go, only a few other cars on the streets. They hold hands in the car and Serena doesn’t think she cares who sees, but knows Bernie will still be here after she’s gone, doesn’t want to make things worse for her in her absence. They sit in the car for a good long while in the parking lot of the airport, the windows rolled down, the heat almost oppressive. 

“I’m coming back,” Serena promises, wants Bernie to accept it, to know it to be true. “I just have to see what’s going on at Holby, check on Jason, make sure everything is all right. And then I’m coming back.” She slips a hand into Bernie’s hair, runs her fingers through the fine blonde strands, made brighter, lighter, from the Kenyan sun. 

“Who will take care of you, Serena, when you’re taking care of everyone else?” Bernie asks, her voice hoarse. Her fingertips reach out to mirror Serena’s touch, ghosting against her forehead, against the greying strands she long-ago stopped dyeing. 

“We’ll Skype every weekend, Major,” Serena says, knows she has to keep from crying, knows it won’t do either of them any good to sob in this car. “You can keep me in line.”

“I always did,” Bernie agrees, and Serena huffs out a sad sort of chuckle. “I’ll miss you, Ms. Campbell.”

Serena touches the silver pendant hanging around her neck, runs her fingers against the smooth edge. “I’ll be back.” It’s a vow, it’s a promise, it’s all she can hope for, all she wants. She stops herself from kissing Bernie, doesn’t know who might see, just squeezes her hand once, twice. “I’ll be back,” she says again and opens the car door, heads toward the airport, walking away from her home and towards it all at once. 

She pauses, just before the sliding glass doors, and waves, blows a kiss on her fingertips, watches Bernie drive away as the sun rises overhead.


End file.
